Lovers and Liars (47 page)

‘Melrose is making waves again,’ Charlotte said. ‘Something blew up over the weekend, apparently - don’t ask me what. You won’t get near Nicholas all day, Gini, don’t even ask, all right?’ She paused, and gave a small secretive smile. ‘Whatever it is you want, you can discuss it tonight.’

‘Tonight?’ ‘This just came for you. By messenger.’ She handed Gini a large vellum envelope. ‘I know what it is already. I had Lord Melrose’s personal assistant on the phone about it, at half-past eight.’

Gini opened the envelope. Inside was an engraved invitation to a dinner given by the Newspaper Publishers’ Association that night. The chairman of the association was currently Lord Melrose; the dinner was at the Savoy, the guest of honour and main speaker was His Excellency the US Ambassador; and the subject of John Hawthorne’s speech was to be Privacy and the Press. Written across the top of the card was her name, in exquisite italic script. Gini stared at this thoughtfully.

‘Lord Melrose’s office sent thisT

‘Oh yes. At the behest of the great man himself.’ Charlotte gave her a narrow look. ‘So what have you been up to, Gini? I didn’t know you hobnobbed with the great and the good.’

‘I don’t. Not often.’

Gini looked down at the card again. She knew precisely who had procured this invitation for her. John Hawthorne. Well, well,

: in the circumstances she would be interested to hear his ws on privacy and the Press.

icholas knows, by the way.’ Charlotte grinned. ‘And he was e himself with curiosity. He says you can drive there and in his car.’ She made a face. ‘Be there. That was the gist

what he said. He’ll pick you up at your flat at seven-thirty. I tell him that’s fixedT

‘ Gini said.

door to Jenkins’s office opened; Daiches came out. He gave a pale glance. Charlotte, who had her back to him, seemed to his presence through her shoulder-blades. She turned back

her word processor and began to type. Daiches made straight r Gini, a little smile on his face.

‘Well, Ginj,’ he said, walking beside her towards the lift, ‘I hear Ire now a friend of Melrose, no less. Congratulations. This uld do vour future career here a great deal of good. Friends the right.places - the secret of every lady journalist’s success.’ ‘Oh, fuck off, Daiches/ Gini said.

Daiches gave a little pout of delight. ‘Gini, language, language! nd vou’re usually so polite. You’re going down? Me too. How ce.’.

Daiches followed her into the lift. He was carrying a pile of ers. The floors flashed by. Daiches turned to her, and indicated top-most fax.

‘Johnny /%ppleyard’s dead,’ he said. ‘Had you heard? This just me in from our stringer in Rome. Murder, Gini - how about

0’

Gini glariced down at the fax. It gave some details of the killing, d thev were already inaccurate. She made no response. ‘Appl’.

evard and that weirdo he lived with. What was his nameT ‘Stevev, I think.’

‘Stevev, that’s right. The farm-boy with the pretty face. Bound nd anZI foot, Gini. One of those queer killings by the sound of it. eartbreaking, the prejudice in this wicked world of ours .

‘Give it a rest, Daiches.’

Daiches gave her a long, cold, pale look. ‘Ah well/ he said, uffling the pages. ‘It is murder. Worth a couple of columns, &)n’t vou think?’

., The’v had reached the Features floor. With relief Gini stepped :. out ol”the lift; Daiches held the doors open.

Just one little thing, Gini - before you rush off.’ His smile became sweet. ‘Don’t forget the telephone sex story, will you?

314

Nicholas did mention it to you last Friday. I need it, and I need it soon.’

‘WhenT ‘Not later than the end of the week.’ ‘That’s not possible.’

‘Then make it possible, dear,’ he said, in his mildest and most dangerous voice. The lift doors began to close. ‘Friday, 3 p.m. at the latest,’ he called through them. ‘On my desk, Gini. On my desk.’

Back in the Features department, Gini went through her notes. She took a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. A list of priorities, she told herself: a shopping-list. She wrote:

1) Find McMullen. Call Oxford college. Try Jeremy Prior-Kent.

2) Trace/speak to Loma Munro.

3) Where hire high-spec blondes? Escort agencies?

4) Appleyard. Any connection this & telephone sex?

5) Talk Mary’s crossword friend re codes.

The first two of these tasks were straightforward. She called Christ Church, and quickly discovered that McMullen’s tutor there had been a history don whose name she knew well: Dr Anthony Knowles, a man with a maverick reputation who was something of a media star, a frequent television pundit, and a contributor to newspapers, as well as a very eminent historian. To her surprise, she was even able to speak briefly to Dr Knowles himself, and most amiable he was. He gave her considerably more information about McMullen’s brief Oxford career. However, he proved no help at all when it came to the question of McMullen’s whereabouts.

‘My dear, I wish I could be of help. But alas, I cannot. James used to call on me occasionally, for old times’ sake, if he was passing through Oxford. And I’m always delighted-to see him

- an excellent mind, one of my best undergraduates. But I’m afraid I’ve neither seen nor heard from James for at least a year. Let me see, whom might you try? There was a rather foolish young man who was at school with him, who came up the same year. They had rooms on the same staircase. I believe they remained in touch. Now what was his name? Jeremy something, I think .

‘Jeremy Prior-Kent?’

‘Albat’s it. Of course. And now, I’m afraid I must curtail this versation.’

She tried the offices of Prior-Kent’s film-production company in o. Unfortunately, his secretary said, he had changed plans; he Id now not be returning to London until late Thursday night. and his location manager were scouting locations in Cornwall, so could not be reached.

he wornan made Cornwall sound like the Sahara Desert. She cle Prior-Kent sound like Cecil B. de Mille.

f Course, should Mr Kent get in contact, I’ll pass on your ssage. You’re calling from the News? If it’s urgent-‘

Ift is urgent. Very.’

11 expect I could find a small window for you on Friday. Let just check his diary .

A window? Thanks.’

During the long pause that followed, Gini leafed through the ce directory of film-production companies. Kent’s company, arnander Films, had a few fisted credits for TV commercials

minor documentaries; no feature films as yet. Windows, Gini ught; location scouting in Cornwall: pretentious idiots. Why were film people, especially the minor ones, like this?

welve on Friday.’ The girl came back on the line. ‘It’s his y gap. He could spare you an hour then. Then he has a big . Shall we say the Groucho? It’s right around the corner here. It’s convenient for him.’

anks very much. Luckily, I can spare an hour on Friday too. see him at the Groucho then.’

e hung up on the girl’s wails about confirmation, and dialled number of Lorna Munro’s Rome hotel. This would be her call to the model, and none had been returned. It was of rprise to learn that, yet again, Lorna Munro had left. There

a contact number, though, for a French magazine. It took Gini minutes of toil, in rusty French, to discover that Lorna o wajnow in Paris. She called Pascal at once. It was ten,

time s0e had arranged to call him, but the telephone was ered by Helen Lamartine. It was a shock to hear her voice. Gini’s surprise she sounded almost friendly, if brisk.

arianne?’ she said. ‘Oh, she’s much better this morning, thank on the road to recovery. We’ll have to watch her carefully, just the next twenty-four hours or so. But the penicillin seems to e done the trick. One moment, Pascal’s in the other room … al, it’s London. Work.’

While she waited for Pascal to come on the line, Gini stared into space. That ‘we’ had hurt. All the old familiarity of a marriage, that was what she had heard in Helen’s voice. Even if it had been an unhappy marriage, her own claims seemed, beside it, very tenuous, very frail. She felt an instant’s foreboding, but it passed the second she heard Pascal’s voice.

She told him quickly the news about Lorna Munro: that she was in Paris for just twenty-four hours; that she was doing a photosession of Gaultier dresses for Elle magazine - no, not in studio; the location was the left bank, outside the church of St Germain.

‘That’s fine,’ Pascal said quickly. ‘I can cover that. Marianne’s much better today. She won’t miss me for an hour or two.’ He paused. ‘Her temperature is still fluctuating. I ought to stay one more day here, Gini, just to make sure she’s well again. I’ll fly back tomorrow. Meanwhile,’ his voice altered, ‘I miss you, you know.’

‘I miss you too.’

‘Darling, tell me, you were all right last night?’

Gini hesitated. She would have liked to tell him that she had been far from all right; she would have liked to tell him about the strange postcard, the footsteps, the power cut, the darkness, and that horrible whispering obscene tape. But it was better to wait.

‘I was fine/ she said quickly. ‘I saw Lise, as I mentioned. Very strange. I have a lot to tell you. I’ll explain all the details when I see you. Now I’m tying up a few loose ends. Tonight I have to go to some grand newspaper dinner. With Jenkins.’

‘Well, you know what to ask him … ‘

‘Yes. I do. Whether he’ll answer is another matter. Meantime/ she paused, ‘I’m going to work on the Appleyard connection . ‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know. But I know there is one. I think it has something to do with women - and the different ways in which you can hire them, for sex.’

When Appleyard had given Nicholas Jenkins the original idea for the story on telephone sex lines, he had produced the names of three companies whose primary business this was. The first two of these were just as Gini had imagined them: small holein-the-wall affairs. One operated from a backstreet in Hackney, the other, which doubled as a mini-cab firm, appeared to be a mother-and-daughter operation. It functioned out of one-room premises behind King’s Cross Station, in the red-light district

re. The mother, a hard-faced woman, said little. The daughter, lat girl unwisely encased in Lycra leggings, explained in an

gonistic way that this work was easy money, that it was to find women to recruit.

,Look,’ she said to Gini, ‘which would you prefer? Sitting at e with a tape recorder and a script, or turning tricks with e fat slob in a car behind the gas-works up the streetT She tured out of the window to the wasteland that covered several s to the north of the station.

‘Which would you ratherT The girl’s voice took on a derisive te. ‘Five quid for a hand-job up a back alley - or this? We look r our girls, Mum and me. And since you’re asking - I write scripts. All legal and above board. Now, piss off.’

ini obeyed. She moved on to Appleyard’s third company, and en she saw its premises, in a smart, bright terraced house Fulham - Sloane Ranger territory - her hopes increased. If

levard’s tip could be trusted at all, if there were some more -scale operator behind these businesses, this was the kind of for it she would expect.

nd the kind of front-man she would anticipate too, she thought, en the door opened on a sharply dressed, gold-braceleted youth. name was Bernie, and Bernie proved to be the perfect interee - garrulous, knowing, flattered to talk to a reporter, and sed to dealing with the Press.

It was lunch-time, and Bernie responded favourably to the ggestion that she buy him a drink.

‘What have I got to lose, rightT He eyed her. ‘I mean, the stories ould tell … And the beauty is, Gini, this is a one hundred per t kosher operation. Like, who gets harmed, right? We have a nce for this.’ He winked. ‘A licence to print money - don’t ote me on that.’

He led the way to a wine bar around the corner in the Fulham d; it was filled with the kind of women who still wore velvet e bands and whose habitual tone of voice was a strangud shriek. Gini’ ordered champagne and Kir at five pounds a ss - Bernie’s choice. A few questions, just to kick-start him,

Bernie was off. He explained a few of the market-forces ciples behind his work.

‘The way I look at it, Gini, is this … What makes the world round? Sex. What’s the one commodity you can always flog? What’s the new, nice, clean, guaranteed AIDS-free way to ense it? Down the telephone line. This is a growth industry

While she waited for Pascal to come on the line, Gini stared into space. That ‘we’ had hurt. All the old familiarity of a marriage, that was what she had heard in Helen’s voice. Even if it had been an unhappy marriage, her own claims seemed, beside it, very tenuous, very frail. She felt an instant’s foreboding, but it passed the second she heard Pascal’s voice.

She told him quickly the news about Lorna Munro: that she was in Paris for just twenty-four hours; that she was doing a photosession of Gaultier dresses for Elie magazine - no, not in studio; the location was the left bank, outside the church of St Germain.

‘That’s fine,’ Pascal said quickly. ‘I can cover that. Marianne’s much better today. She won’t miss me for an hour or two.’ He paused. ‘Her temperature is still fluctuating. I ought to stay one more day here, Gini, just to make sure she’s well again. I’ll fly back tomorrow. Meanwhile,’ his voice altered, ‘I miss you, you know.’

‘I miss you too.’

‘Darling, tell me, you were all right last nightT

Gini hesitated. She would have liked to tell him that she had been far from all right; she would have liked to tell him about the strange postcard, the footsteps, the power cut, the darkness, and that horrible whispering obscene tape. But it was better to wait.

‘I was fine.’ she said quickly. ‘I saw Lise, as I mentioned. Very strange. I have a lot to tell you. I’ll explain all the details when I see you. Now I’m tying up a few loose ends. Tonight I have to go to some grand newspaper dinner. With Jenkins.’

‘Well, you know what to ask him … ‘

‘Yes. I do. Whether he’ll answer is another matter. Meantime/ she paused, ‘I’m going to work on the Appleyard connection . ‘Which isT